Extremes
by Muikai
Summary: Do not read this story. [ Rated for disturbing content. ]


I'm feeling in _this_ sort of mood. I want to do something different. Mmmh, yes, warning I suppose.

**I already know I'm weird. Don't tell me.**

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I tell him, softly until my lips rest against his pretty little ear, that I'm going to kill him.

He reacts like I thought he would. A quiet, chaste whimper complemented by the sparkle of moisture that wells up in the corner of his sapphire eye. So beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much for this.

"I'm going to kill you, now."

Another whimper. I say it again, just to make sure he gets the message, and I walk over to the other side of the shack. You remember the sea side shack, don't you? I changed it. I made it better. Some wouldn't agree, I know it, like the natives who built the fucking thing, but am I bothered?

No.

I draped black cloth around the windows, boarded up the doors and lit candles on the jutting shelves of misplaced, splintering wood. I cut myself with a dull knife until blood seeped from the flesh; and ran in smooth, rich streams down my paleness like maroon tears, streaking it across the walls with showers, writing my name and his intertwined like thick vines in my own liquids.

His delicate, candy-kissed cheekbones and jaw line quiver, defined and gentle as they may be; optics clamped tightly shut as the tendrils of hair grow limp like his emotions, and curtain his face. He shouts loudly, too loudly, and I snatch a shining revolver from the table behind me and point it in his face.

"You make another sound, I'll blow your fucking brains out."

He's quiet.

I place the revolver on the table with my other instruments. They gleam at me like forgotten treasures. I smile, then. I pick up a power drill that I took from my father's tool box—battery operated and turns on with just the right amount of pressure. I press my finger against the switch. The beautiful, crystalline noise breaks through the air, razor-sharp, violently humming, and I hold it up for him to see, drill twirling like a steel unicorn's horn and glinting in the moonlight.  
He starts crying.

I ignore him, this time, and step over slowly. He's naked. I undressed him before tying him up to the wooden chair – naturally. I bound the rope until it rubbed his flesh raw and he whined; because I love it when he whines, I'm hurting him and I love it.

Thank you so much for this.

I stroke his little manhood tenderly but he doesn't respond. I kiss him; but he doesn't respond. I try to shove my fingers up his ass. He doesn't respond. Just winces. I hold the power drill up to his eye; and I turn it on before I know what I'm doing. I apply pressure.

A wonderful burst of iris and blood and flesh, as the unicorn's horn digs it's way, dancing, into his eye socket, and he's screaming and I'm screaming and the drill is covered in blood, his eyelid becomes unhinged and flaps around by a little connection of flesh, and the socket is a mesh of pupil muck and a strange, gaping hole-- eyelashes matted with his liquid, his right optic turned into a scarlet explosion of lust and pain. I can hear a soft _squidge_ sound beneath the buzz.

I just drilled his eye out.

His remaining eye rolls up to the ceiling as a trickle of blood runs down his perfectly supple cheek. It runs down the rivet towards the edge of his lips.

"Riku, no." he moans, and I slap him with such force and fierceness that his chair falls over, and he's left with his legs up in the air like some sort of bug. His hands – which had been straining, wilt with pain and weakness. He is still.

I reach over to the table again, discarding my father's power drill and spooning a pair of tweezers into my hand. They sparkle with newness. The fact that I brought them especially for this occasion pleases me, and I give them a little squeeze before advancing towards Sora again, whose face is invisible through the hair and the blood. I don't like to imagine the pain upon myself, so I don't. I like to imagine the _fact that I'm hurting him. I have control. He's begging me to stop. He loves me, he loves me…_

I pull his chair back up and I shove my fist inside his mouth. He gags, tries to bite down on my knuckles, but I ignore this and push my pale, curled fingers down his throat. More gagging, a little struggling that is all to be ignored. I hold the tweezers between my forefinger and thumb. I give them a few clicks, teasing the pointed metal tips like reptilian jaws that snap in the air, and I place them carefully into his mouth, tightening the grip as I select one of his perfectly pure teeth. They smile up at me like milky moonstones. The tweezers slip around until they hold one of his molars and I'm satisfied. I've learnt how to do this. I've learnt how to pull teeth.

So I start pulling. He whimpers, naturally, his volume increasing as I tug the molar from the tender, fleshy gums, more, more, more. He tries to scream but my hand is almost choking him. His lips curl into a sudden snarl. His anger shows through the pain, but pain always dominates, so he recoils as I pluck the tooth straight from his mouth with a bursting sound, and blood flows and I can smell it and I love it and I _laugh._

I put his tooth in my pocket. I don't think he can speak from the pain.

Putting my tweezers back in, he doesn't seem to care. I extract several more of his teeth with shelled, sharp snaps when the tooth breaks loose, and I have five of his precious molars before the night is through.

I feel good. Why stop now?

I throw the tweezers somewhere in the corner. They're not important now. I turn back to my little table of trinkets; and select a black dagger which is lying at the end. It's streamline and smooth. It was a gift from my father at fourteen—and although I showed no interest in the weapon back then, I certainly do now. It's point is sharp and quick. Its handle is chrome and unpatterned. It's so simple, that I fall in love all over again.

He doesn't look at me. He doesn't react, when I crouch in front of his stomach, and he obviously thinks I'm going to suck his dick.

I don't.

I reach up the knife, but I'm not going to cut it off, either. I make the incision around the bellybutton. The blade sinks into his flesh like a wounded ship, spurting blood that leaks onto his untouched skin in an uncanny impersonation of rainwater. I start to cut in and out, and in, and out, like a saw around his stomach, half-gutting him, but I don't want to kill him just yet.

I decide to kick his chair over to stop the blood from spilling out.

He's on the floor again. He's screaming, and screaming loud, and I don't have much time now I need to hurry, so I lower myself and dig the dagger in again, making a hole in his perfectly flat stomach that's not-so perfect anymore. His interior glistens up at me with rich, dark blood, large intestine snaking around his lower body with other organs and parts that I don't know of. The flap of skin that I cut into flops to the side, not quite unhinged but not part of him anymore.

I put the knife near his face. Back to the table, I pick up a blowtorch that's from the same toolbox as the drill. The blowtorch is heavy. It's encircled with metal. I'm supposed to have a mask, or something, but I really couldn't care less; so I turn it on and watch the fervid flame flaring up from the tip, a phoenix's tongue, a painful glow in the darkness of the seaside shack. Sora's nearly dead. Just one last thing…

I crouch down next to his nakedness and lower the blowtorch's tube into his newly crafted stomach hole. His blood glistens, still, and shifts when the flame comes in contact with his liquids, inside parts being poked around. I can't imagine the pain. I don't want to. His face is very pale; but he shouts and hollers and squeezes up his blood-streaked face when I put the blowtorch inside his stomach. Flesh curls from heat. He starts to cook. It's a brilliantly rancid stench, the flame that's heating him rapidly, and I cringe in a smaller manner than he does; digging the blowtorch in further and my elbow crushing his ribs, blood thickening and organs becoming scorched and burnt. The fucking smell is overpowering. I look up to his face, his remaining eye is closed – and he's dead now.

He's dead.

I turn the blowtorch off and place it on the floor, adjacent to the knife. I shove my hand inside his stomach, upwards through tubes, slick with body juices and splintering ribs and bone, palm coming in contact with my desired shape. His heart. Unbeating, unloving, untouched, I drag his organ out in my fingers, it's slippery with gore and muck, I can smell his blood and his death. I pull the heart out into the moonlight. It's wet. The veins and ventricles. The connecting strings and pulleys that work his body.

_Worked _his body.

I look at him on the floor. Even though he's dead; he still looks peaceful. A drifting expression on his face. Remaining eye closed. Lips slightly parted. His lipstick and eye shadow are blood.

"Look, Sora." I say gently, holding the heart up to his face. "Who's heartless now?"


End file.
